


Legend of the East

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: ;), Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternative Werewolf Lore, Angry Spirits, Animal Attack, Animal Transformation, Arthur Whump, Background Character Death, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Bullshit lore, But that ain't changed much, Cannibalism, Charles being a saint, Confused John, Curses, During Chapter 2, Dutch I guess, Dutch is just, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, Fuck Micah, Hosea being a dad, I never wrote mythology before, I'm Bad At Tagging, John is a good brother, Legends, Magic-Users, Micah is a coward, Not always but mostly, Not literally, Out of Body Experiences, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Search for a Cure, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Spirit Animals, Spirits, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, The gang is confused, Werewolf Arthur Morgan, Werewolf Lore, Witch Curses, because witches got treated unfairly, black magic, but at what cost, but whats in between?, but who isn't, doing shit you don't really wanna do, for who? who knows at this point, i guess?, kinda horrifying, micah gets what he deserves, or wait it out, so excuse me, who knows - Freeform, ya'll can guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-02-27 05:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18732511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: It seemed fitting, that Arthur gets cursed as soon as things start to look up, just as the gang started to rejoice and pass their grieving. Nature never liked them, or at least never liked him.





	1. The Legend of the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles didn't know what he expected to hear, not really, certainly not what Hosea had announced, solemn and dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all when I tell you ain't got no clue about curses, lemme tell ya, I hella mean it. This doesn't follow any certain lore, it's all over the place because I couldn't find anything similar to what I had in mind. Please forgive me for any mistakes. 
> 
> Also, I promise I'm working on my other fics, I promise.

 It’d been a normal day, John, Arthur, and Charles out after a lead Dutch had gotten. The sun had finally broken, a gentle breeze cooling them off as they trek across the plains. The silence between them was the product of exhaustion, mostly, and a lack of topics, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, simply boring.

The wind picked up, blew sand into their faces as their horses shook their heads and snorted in distaste. Arthur pulled his hat down, shielding his eyes from the onslaught and gently pressed a hand to Archimedes, the Shire Hosea had given him to sell, but he liked the beast, awful temper and all. Archimedes snorted again, and Arthur pulled on the reins to stop him. The sand had grown thick, a thickness Arthur didn’t know could be. New Hanover was grassy, mostly, and so it had been odd to see the dirty orange tinge the air carries, thick enough that Arthur couldn’t see Charles and John anymore.

He blinked, shading his eyes as he tries to search for his companions. They can’t have gotten far, they were traveling side by side, “John? Charles?” Arthur calls, coughing against the sand that had gotten blown down his throat. He spits, Archimedes dances a circle, Arthur tries to soothe him, but the wind is roaring now, blowing in his ear and Archimedes rears and Arthur holds the reins tightly, he thumps his hooves and steps forward before rearing again and Arthur grapples with his reigns before inevitably losing his grip and rolling off his saddle into the ground.

Archimedes turns to him, roars, and bolts. Arthur watches him go, picking himself off the ground and looking around him. His hat had gotten blown off, when he fell, his hair, short as it is, blowing in his face and stinging his forehead. He pulls up his bandana, squinting as he calls for his companions again.

The only response he had gotten is the wind pushing him, turning more and more aggressive and he wonders if he had gotten himself amidst a tornado. Would be his luck, getting lost in a natural disaster. He didn’t bother whistling for Archimedes; if the Shire is lucky, he’ll have gotten somewhere safe, hopes John and Charles had too.

He takes another look around, scanning the ground for his hat before giving up and trudging forward. He’s thankful he has his jacket on, the wind had grown cold now, the sun must have set as darkness settles around him. The sand had not let up, but it’s easier to breathe with his bandana on. He blinks away the sand crusting his eyes and when the stinging gets too bad, he shades his face. He walks on, hoping that he’ll stumble across shelter or out of the storm.

It’s a few minutes later when Arthur hears the first whisper, unintelligible and barely heard. It’s a jumble of words that Arthur can’t decipher but holds hope as he calls out, “Anyone there?” but there is no response and Arthur pauses, turning on his heel as he tries to locate the sound. There is nothing, nothing but the sound of the angry wind blowing.

Another handful of minutes, another whisper, this one closer and loud enough that Arthur can tell it sounds like a woman, but again, the words are nothing Arthur understands. For a moment, the world feels silent, his ears ring and the cold is swept away. He stumbled, feeling the wind become even more turbulent as he falls to his knees, hands coming up to cover his ears as the ringing gets louder and louder, to the point where his head feels like it’s splitting into two. He doesn’t scream, knowing he’ll choke on sand if he does and so he sits there, on his knees, cradling his head as he waits for the pain to pass.

It takes a few seconds for the pain to settle, like a match had set him on fire, his head searing, around his neck like a noose from the depth of hell and down his chest, settling hot in his belly. It burns like he swallowed kerosene and followed it with a lighted match. He breathes through his teeth, pushing himself to his feet. The sand had thickened, the pain too. He needs to find somewhere to stay, to wait whatever happened to him out.

It's only a few steps before he kneels again, a gust of wind blowing him to his knees. He grits his teeth, the fire spreading, his fingertips burning as he grips at his hair helplessly. He can't even scream, the fire noose around his neck barely letting him breathe.

Finally, after the fire had engulfed him whole, skin on fire and head split, he tumbles to his side. He lays there, willing for some type of miracle or for death to take him. The sand whirls with the wind, morphing into shape, and Arthur squints as the shape moves. Hallucinations, it must be, he's not breathing right and pain can do strange things to a man.

The shape hovers in the twirls of sand, Arthur can feel the fire flare and he chokes as his mouth falls in a silent scream. He coughs roughly, chest heaving as more and more sand fills his mouth and the shape hovers closers, almost standing above him.

He closes his eyes, submitting to the pain and distress as he feebly spits. Somehow, the pain lessens and Arthur peers again, coming face to face with the shape, a woman, made of sand to be exact. He freezes, unable to look away as the woman extends a hand towards him. His mouth falls open again as the fire burns brighter, and Arthur can almost feel his skin physically burning, but he knows, somehow, he knows he isn't on fire. The woman places her hand over his heart, the touch barely registers as his senses fall weak, only feeling pain and the pressure of oxygen deficiency.

The woman says something, whispers it to Arthur and the pain fades into a dull throb, like the aftermath of a hot day. He sags into the ground, and the sand falls to the ground, the air settles and Arthur closes his eyes, tired and sore; hopes that someone will find him.

 

 

It had taken a second, barely even that, for the wind to kick up around them. Charles and John had stuck close together, but Arthur had been lost. They'd never seen anything like it, the sky had turned a deep orange, and they watched as the sand became thicker and thicker, outrunning it barely. John had suggested they go look for Arthur, a worried glint in his eyes and a slight tremor in his voice. Charles so desperately wanted to go too, find their friend and continue on together but navigating through a sandstorm, one this dense, is merely impossible. It was the sane thing to do, didn't mean they liked it as they traveled further and further away from the storm.

A few miles into their trek, the storm had only grown thicker in the distance and they silently share worried glances. They pause on a hill, watching as the storm swirls around itself, a handful of seconds later, Arthur's black stallion runs out of it, alone. Charles dismounts Taima, traveling down the length of the hill and catching Archimedes by his reigns and whispering calming phrases to him, till the horse calms enough that Charles is able to lead him up to where John is waiting. "This doesn't vote well," John says lowly, and Charles doesn't answer, looking back at the storm, still raging and dropping his head.

"We'll do no good," Charles answers, and John clicks his tongue in disappointed agreement, "We wait, five minutes, max," he adds, and John straightens with a nod. A sandstorm is not lethal, at least Charles hopes it isn't. He had heard of people suffocating, but that had been in deserts and much more dire situations, the storm hadn't even covered much of an area; just an odd circle, barely an acre long. Nature sure is something.

Thankfully, they didn't need to wait, it seemed. The storm let up, sand and dust settling into a gentle whirl and they could finally see the horizon. John and Charles had made their way back, Archimedes trailing behind them as they search the area for Arthur. Doesn't take them long, Arthur's coat contrasting darkly against the dusty earth underneath him. John rushes towards him, dismounting Old Boy and kneeling beside where Arthur lays unmoving. Charles is right behind him, though his panic well concealed. Arthur has his bandana up, hair coated with sand and dust and eyes closed, he's breathing, but it sounds wheezy and rugged.

They haul him into a sitting position, Arthur fighting back in his sleep, resisting the movement and coughing dryly. It doesn't sound good, but he isn't dead, and that's enough to put the two men at ease. Archimedes his closer to Arthur now, blowing breaths into his hair and sniffing around him, nostrils flaring for a moment before he steps back with a grunt and paces behind Old Boy. Arthur coughs again, John gently (or as gently as possible) trying to wake him, shaking his shoulder and calling out for him.

Slowly, slower than Charles would have liked, Arthur returns to the waking world. He blinks sluggishly at the men in front of him, looking to the side for a moment before his face twists into a grimace and he bends to a hacking cough, following it with a thick spit, discolored, Charles notes.

"Seems you got yourself in a rough situation, again," John jokes, falling dry as Arthur pulls himself to his feet, unstable as he grips John's arm tightly, eyes screwed shut, "What's wrong?" he asks, wrapping Arthur's arm over his shoulder, Charles holding his other. Archimedes snorts, taking a step forward, nostrils flaring before he turns away, galloping a few feet away. Old Boy and Taima share a similar reaction, John rolling his eyes in frustration as he whistles for his horse to come back. Charles holds Taima's reigns, calming her as she stomps, head shaking from moment to moment. Archimedes finally obeys, Arthur whistling for him weakly, John grappling at the Shire's reigns as soon as they were within reach. Arthur hauls himself into his saddle, tilting forward as Archimedes stomps his foot, but stays in place, Arthur mumbles something to him, stroking a hand down his mane and the Shire settles, only slightly. Taima's tail swishes behind her as Charles mounts her, she steps to the side as Archimedes follows Old Boy.

Charles calms her down, feeds her a peppermint and soothes a hand down her muscled shoulder, she remains on edge, ears flicking around, trying to detect their surroundings. Archimedes snorts a few times, but Arthur manages to calm him down every time the stallion becomes agitated, whispering into his ear, patting his neck, running a hand across his shoulder, all while simultaneously managing to look tired to the bone.

It takes little over half an hour for them to get back, Arthur stumbling off his horse and towards his tent, all while ignoring the questions thrown at them. They were set to come back in the early morning, but here they are, back in under two hours with a run down Arthur and three uneasy horses. Hosea doesn't intercept Arthur's half-dead stumble, instead, turning to John and Charles who explain a rundown of the situation. Luckily, they're off the hook, Javier and Lenny sent out to replace them. Charles settles himself by the campfire, awaiting Hosea's verdict, watching as he checks on Arthur, brushing sand from his face, sharing a quiet conversation. With each passing word, Hosea's face grows more and more concerned, before finally, he reaches above the bed, pulling the tent covers and closing the tent flaps. It wasn't a good sign, never is, the few times Arthur's tent cover had been drawn were because of extreme illness or a wound bad enough to warrant a fever. 

The camp paused for a moment, Pearson stopped chopping the turkey Charles had brought earlier, Tilly looked up from her laundry, Kieran hitched Archimedes and waited, just like everyone had. Charles didn't know what he expected to hear, not really, certainly not what Hosea had announced, solemn and dark.

"A curse," he had said. Charles waited for elaboration, but nothing came.

Curses and Magic have been heard off, but nothing that includes a sandstorm. He'd encountered monsters before, Wendigos, Werewolves, and Spirits, thankfully never stumbled across a witch or a particularly angry ghost. He'd heard story though, from angry Witches avenging their ancestors to Vampires snacking on lonesome travelers. Curses are another topic, deeper than what most know, some curses are long term, some short, some kill others hurt, some can make you suffer for a lifetime, others can make you incoherent for the rest of your life. He had seen two cases of curses in his lifetime, a man who had his face slowly morph into a pig, more and more each time he lied, and a woman who couldn't touch men, couldn't be in the near vicinity. Both had been oddly devastating in some way or other. 

He isn't particularly educated on the subject, mostly knows about the monsters, from personal experience or otherwise. All he knows is that Curses are rough, rough and cruel and only a dark being can cast them, or a pissed off one. He can't imagine what, though, can't imagine what kind of curse, which type, would possibly include an entire sandstorm, can only assume it's bad. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I tried out a new style of writing for this one. This fic will have longer chapters than usual since the plot is so loaded and I don't want it to drag on for 30 chapters so...I hope you don't mind. This also means that the updates will be further apart, and since I'm working on my other two fics, it might take longer than I anticipated. I'm trying to do research on Greek mythology and Latin mythology but my schedule is cramped, so it's not the best of research.

_Run run run_ , that's all they ever did. It's becoming more and more a reality, becomes more and more permanent. _Run, kill, eat, feed_ and repeat, again and again. _Run run run, kill kill kill_ , for your own good, for survival. _Run_ , he can feel the dirt, how it kicks up under his steps. He's running because that's all he knows, he can feel the stretch of his shoulder, how the dirt feels between his toes, pressing against his skin, moist and grainy. _Run_ , it's all he's knows, run from your mistakes, the law, the bounty-men. He’d been running all his damn life, chasing, hoping and cowering. Ever since he was a boy.

 _ _Run and don't look back__ , his father had screamed at him with a knife pressed to his throat, __go,__ __boy!__ _He’d only been thirteen, but he followed orders and that’s when his run had began._

Arthur runs and runs and runs down the endless path, hears his breathing in his ears, barely glances at the trees sprinting beside him. He doesn't know where he's going, but he knows he should run, _must_ run, or _it_ will get him. __Run__ , he tells himself. He has to go, has to leave this place and find safety, but he doesn't know where it is. A city, maybe, or a riverbank or somewhere beside a fire. Somewhere he can rest and find a semblance of peace, but now, now he needs to __run__.

 _ _It'll get you__ , a whispering voice warns, __you need to outrun it__ _,_ _ _outsmart it__. But he doesn't know _what_ to outsmart or if it even is possible. But he goes on, step after step, covering more and more distance. He isn't aching, but his heart is beating against his chest irregularly like it's trying to match a pace but it's too erratic. His breathing is rough as he looks around, _really_ looks, takes in the trees and the ground and the surrounding colors, muted as they are. He can feel the dread seep coldly around his neck as he slows to a stop, like a frozen noose pulling at his throat. It closer, getting closer and closer, whatever he’s running from this time.

 _ _Outrun__ , the voice whispers forcefully, __outrun, run, RUN__ it bellows and Arthur takes in a gasp, vision blurring as he blinks and...

And he finds himself in his bed? He blinks at the darkness, the feeling of the scratchy bedding reeling him into reality slowly, the dream already fading. "Calm down," Hosea soothes from beside him and Arthur jumps slightly, not expecting someone to be with him, "Rest, lie back down," he says calmly and Arthur looks at him, still feeling the noose around his neck, hot and cold, making him shiver, "We need you to rest, Arthur," Hosea repeats and Arthur lets himself fall back against his pillow, thin as it is.

He wipes at his brow, feeling the warmth burn him and he kicks off the blanket that had been covering him. It does little to sooth his heated body, and he wonders if he caught a fever. Hosea turns a few pages in his book, mutters under his and sighs in between. Arthur watches tiredly, eyes following the slight glow of Hosea's eyes, courtesy of a spell he'd cast on himself when he was still an inexperience Spell Caster.

“What’re you doing with that?” Arthur asks, clearing his throat as he shifts to a more comfortable position, Hosea looks up for a moment before looking down again, eyes scanning the pages. They usually don’t use that book for their spells, don’t use books anymore since Grimshaw deals with the healing spells, and Reverend knows some potions, and they had them memorized by now but this isn’t the book for _those_ , anyhow, Arthur recognizes the cover from when he had begged Hosea to teach him some magic; back when he first got picked up by them, but in the end he lacked the gift. This book was specifically on blood magic and manipulation of nature, written in Greek which also didn’t help Arthur in learning.

“Just looking through, how do you feel?” Hosea asks and Arthur doesn’t fail to notice the weight of the question.

“I’m fine, Hungry, though, and a little sore,” He answers truthfully, his shoulder aches, his spine trembles under his own weight, similar to the way it feels when he tried to carry Bill once. Come to think of it, the soreness travels all over his body, from behind his teeth to the muscles of his calves.

“I can get you some stew,” Hosea offers and Arthur’s stomach twists at the idea, no, the stew is _disgusting_. Or he’s sure it is, it certainly isn’t a restaurant quality dish, but he’d never thought of it so… he doesn’t even know. He’s hungry for sure, but not for stew, that’s all he’s certain of.

“No, not now, a bit nauseas,” he excuses lamely and Hosea squints, detecting the lie but letting it slide as Arthur sits up properly. His skin feels itchy, like the sand he’d been caught up in had buried itself within his pores. He idly scratches at his jaw, feeling a bit of relief but it’s soon followed by the itchiness again and he drops his hand in defeat. He needs to get clean, then he can work out what he wants to eat and how to get the feeling of fire around his neck away.

“Do you feel any different than you did before?” Hosea asks, turning a few more pages before looking up when no response had been said, Arthur doesn’t know what qualifies as different, the sores are familiar but under different conditions, the noose is new, though.

“Feel like...I’ve got a rope around my neck, it, uh, it burns but it’s also cold sometimes?” He stammers, failing to describe the feeling, it’s not necessarily choking him, but it burns icily. Cold and hot, like putting your hand through ice, like the ice back up in Colter that left him shivering even close to the fire and wrapped up in a thick blanket. Hosea hums, turning the pages again, eyes glowing brighter as he focuses, pupils darting around.

“Let me try something,” He says, standing, but his eyes don’t leave the pages of his Spell-book. Arthur watches, he trusts Hosea with his life, but his experiences with magic are more often than not sour, the one time he got hexed and couldn’t speak till they found the hex bag and burned it, the time a witch had him and Dutch go fist to fist under a spell, once he got a cursed dog sicced on him, that didn’t go well. None of them had.

Hosea whispers something Arthur couldn’t understand Greek, he recognizes the syllables and a few words here and there, a word that sounds very close to _Apocalypto_ which if Arthur’s memory serves right; means reveal. A word that sounds like _Esh-paso_ Arthur remembers it meaning crack, or break, one or the other. But that’s the end of his understanding, he stopped learning Greek when he gave up on being a Spell Caster, his accent was too rough and his patience too short. But he didn’t regret it as much as he thought he would, they still have Hosea and Grimshaw, even Dutch knows some Greek but mainly invested his time in Latin, the harder more violent spells under it.

Arthur’s train of thought halts as his chest burns, he places his hand there instinctively, pulling back when his hand turned numb as soon as his fingers brushed against his shirt. He stares at his hand, blinking as his veins slowly turn an unnatural shade of blue, blue like a pen’s ink spilled or like a brand new navy shirt, blue like the sky at midnight.

He looks at Hosea, who gives a nod as he continues to speak in a low mutter and Arthur decides that Hosea would know if something was wrong. He just needs to trust him, needs to calm down and wait for his verdict. The pain in his chest doesn’t stop, but it doesn’t get worse. Like someone had tied a rope around his lungs and pulled every few moments, a burn in his heart like Kerosene set on fire, like whiskey downed straight. He concentrates on keeping himself breathing, but the noose around his neck flares, hot, definitely at this moment it’s burning like it had been wielded by the devil himself, and he gasps involuntarily.

What was once just a painful presence is now choking him, tugging him back like a leash on a wild dog. His hand flies up to his neck, aimlessly scratching against the invisible noose, it burns, then it turns colder than the mountains, then hotter than a burning fire. A cycle, hot, cold, hot, cold.

He can’t seem to quiet grasp the noose, somewhere in his mind he knows it’s not real, knows it’s something in his mind but his body doesn’t share the sentiment. His neck feels raw against his nails and he’s acutely aware of Hosea speeding up his reading and tugging slightly on his wrist, trying to stop him from clawing out his throat. He needs to get through this, if Hosea stops now, Arthur will continue to suffer, he knows it, and Hosea knows it too.

The noose tightens impossibly tight and Arthur feels the last surge of blood rush to his head before his vision darkens and he stops struggling, head heavy as he hits the pillow and drifts away, if only for a moment.

  


Hosea stands in the silence of Arthur’s tent, the book is now closed, his finger buried in between the pages as a makeshift bookmark. He runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek, watching as the markings slowly return to their natural invisible state. It’s not a Greek curse, he had caught a few words of Latin but most of the markings had been symbols. Crawling from under Arthur’s collar, thick around his neck and branching into his face and up the back of his head, disappearing under his hair and slinking behind his eyes and beside his nose, up to his forehead and glowing under his hair faintly. He’d never seen a strong reaction to a revealing spell before, Arthur had choked and gurgled and struggled, like the curse had fought back against getting revealed and _that_ set worry deep into Hosea’s old bones. An active magical curse is ten times more dangerous and harder to break than a passive one.

There hadn’t been any symptoms of worry, except the noose Arthur described but now he understands why, the markings had thickened around where Arthur clawed, now an angry shade of red as the markings turn fully invisible.

Hosea had tried to pull his hands away, afraid he’ll hurt himself or somehow offend the curse but it was worthless, like a toddler fighting a wrestler, Hosea’s strength didn’t match Arthur’s desperate attempts.

At least he’s breathing, Hosea thinks as he watches Arthur’s chest rise and fall, not ragged as he expected. Arthur had turned a worrying shade of red before he passed out, pupils blown wide and almost covering his entire iris. Whatever magic holds Arthur is more serious than he anticipated. Than he’d hoped.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, considering his choices and paths of action, drawing up blank on the latter. He places a hand on Arthur’s forehead, wincing at the high temperature and pulling back. Just his luck, a fever to top everything off.

He exits the tent, blowing a heavy sigh before making his way to Dutch, who’s standing in front of his tent, smoking a cigar and watching the starry sky as his phonograph plays. He raises an eyebrow towards Hosea, dropping the cigar and stomping on it before turning and heading inside.

“How is he?” Dutch asks quietly, Hosea sighs again, chest heavy with ignorance. He doesn’t know the curse, what it does, why it choose Arthur, if it’s breakable, _anything_ besides it being of Latin origin and involves sandstorms.

“Feverish, for now,” he replies sourly, implication heavy. For all they know, the curse could be lethal, could be harmless, though that seems a bit unlikely. Hosea watches as Dutch nods to himself, running a hand across his chin, fiddles with his rings and finally turns to Hosea. Nervousness isn’t something new on Dutch, Hosea had seen it more times than he can count, and though his expression never truly betrays it, little movements do and most importantly, his eyes. And now he’s displaying all the symptoms, face carefully controlled but eyes darting in worry, like he’s trying to chase his own thoughts visually.

“Will he be alright?” He asks, and Hosea feels his heart squeeze. He doesn’t know, can’t know for now, Arthur had suffered against a simple spell, they don’t know if he can handle a harder spell, more powerful, something to give a name to the curse. His expression must have shown his uncertainty, he never was good at hiding his emotions, can twist and play with words for days, make people believe almost any lie he spins, but he was never a good actor, at least in front of Dutch. Twenty years of experience does that to you, he guesses, living down each other's throats like they have. “We’ll figure it out,” Dutch assures like always, Hosea had once admired that in him, always optimistic to a fault, but now he can’t feel anything but crushing worry. It all falls into their hands, they can’t put a witch to blame, can’t even pinpoint a curse to blame.

“I’m sure we will,” Hosea agrees half heartedly, he knows he sounds defeated already, but that’s just the tiredness of a full day. The spell had drained his energy, he isn’t as youthful as he wished he could be, lost his ability to cast spells without the fatigue following him. He’d hoped he transferred the gift of magic down to John or Arthur, but John didn’t like to read and never got the hang of concentrating long enough to start a spell and Arthur had given up due to temper issues. It was disappointing, but they grew up to specialize in better things, things that strayed away from magic and into battle territory. He’d taught them the basics, though, taught them how to cast small spells that protect them while they’re camping out, spells that are _necessary_. Like he’d taught every member that joined them.

“He’s strong, always has been, I’m sure he’ll pull through,” Dutch says, eyes unfocused, surely thinking deeply and speaking mindlessly. Hosea doesn’t reply, has been around long enough to know that Dutch needs to let it all out before he comes back to reality, always has been like that, ever since he was no more than a pickpocket in a drunk town’s alleyway. Dutch paces, a straight line that the bear's skin carpet has remembered and left tracks for him to follow, shoes fitting in the sunken fur. Hosea takes a moment to think of what to do next, it seems easy to wait and see but the consequences, it always boils down to the fear of the endpoint; where it will all lead. Dutch pauses his pacing, scuffling his boot against the rug, further indenting it before turning to Hosea, eyebrows drawn tight, “Is it possible it can...” he trails off, Hosea can complete the sentence on his own.

“I don’t know, _yet_ ,” He replies, blowing a breath before shaking his head, “He didn’t react well when I tried to reveal the curse, it almost strangled him, Dutch, I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Hosea sighs in frustration, a new train of thought entering his mind. He’d never seen it, but he can find it in a book somewhere. His library, or private library to be more specific; the one that he tucks into his clothing chest and makes sure Jack never has his hands on it, it’s filled with vigorous magical uses. He’s got a book on Intense Blood Magic there, though he won’t stop his research there, he’s got books he’d inherited from his father, books he deemed too immoral to practice with, animal sacrifices and even human ones, killing curses and fatal hexes, he isn’t sure that the curse caster had the same morality as him, isn’t even sure the caster is still alive, all the more reason to do further research. From what Arthur had described, half awake and faint as he was, the woman made of sand had approached him and that’s when things turned from bad to worse.

Could be a spirit, or a summon, all he knows is it can’t be anything good, and the more he leaves it be and stows in his ignorance, the more time he gives the curse to fester and become dangerous, putting not only Arthur on the line, but possibly the entire camp, including little Jack.

Dutch paces, Hosea thinks.

The familiarity of it, the sound of Dutch’s muffled footsteps, barely heard above the piano and opera singers filtering through the Phonograph, it help Hosea think. Others might find it distracting, but it calm him, grounds him to reality. That Phonograph is the same one Dutch used to calm him when he was still practicing magic, the same songs he listened to while he taught Arthur how to clean a gun proper, the same scratchiness that he heard when he helped John tend to his horse.

“You know,” Dutch broke the silence, pausing with his back turned to Hosea, “You know what he told me? Right before he headed out?” he asks rhetorically and Hosea watches as he turns, mouth pursed tight as he stares in anger somewhere over Hosea’s shoulder, towards the canvas of his tent, “He was talking about how things are getting _better_ , how our luck seems to have _turned_ ,” he practically snarls out the words, a hand coming down to smooth his hair, “His luck, that boy, always- _always_ -” Dutch breathes, closing his eyes before opening them again, “We won’t let him die,”

“We won’t” Hosea agrees, standing. Dutch, though presenting himself otherwise, is really an emotional creature. Hosea had his doubts, at first, but the more he knew Dutch, the more he saw through his facade and into the man he is. Ambitious to a fault and caring in his own complex ways, had seen it firsthand when they stumbled across Arthur, the way he calmed the boy, took the pistol out of his hands, promised him a place to stay free of charge. Dutch always has and will be an emotional man, especially when it comes to the man he calls his son. He’d always said it, _As long as I’ve got you two on my side_ , Him and Arthur, his most trusted, John very close behind but five years gave Arthur the head start, and of course, the fact that Arthur was as loyal as they come and John liked to voice his opinion, right or wrong it was.

He places a hand on Dutch’s shoulder, and Dutch meets his gaze, eyes red from exhaustion. They’d already lost too much, Mac, Davey and Jenny still fresh in their minds. Their mass loss had broken their spirits, but that’s on the mend and if they lose one of their senior members, their lead enforcer, the undoubtedly morale booster of the camp, well they might as well call it quits already.

 _If Arthur dies_... it’s not something Hosea had thought about much. Sure, as he grew old, took on more and more dangerous jobs, came back with bruises and cuts and sometimes a bullet wound; the thought would cross his mind, but Magic was always on their side (aside from occasional mishaps but that’s a small enough ratio to be ignored). Now... _now_ it’s more of a reality than he would like to admit, and it coils heavy in the pit of his stomach and like an anchor on his heart.

“We’ll find a way,” Hosea says, squeezing Dutch’s shoulder. They always do, and Arthur always bounces back. And they will get over this, Hosea will repeat it for the rest of his days if he has to, if that’s what it takes to bring it into reality.

They’ll find a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> criticism is appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't necessarily like how this turned out, but after three attempts of writing it, this is the one that I tolerated the most. Please feel free to point out any mistakes that you might find!

Arthur had always been called a fool, sometimes a fool with too much heart or a clueless fool, but a fool nonetheless, and he doesn’t necessarily disagree. He never really saw the worth Hosea always told him he held, or saw the brain that Dutch seemed to like to test or even the heart that Tilly and the girls call him out on. Ever since he’d been an urchin on the street, pickpocketing men and shoplifting fruits and vegetables, Hosea and Dutch had tried to drill that he wasn’t as useless as society tells him, Hosea focusing on how he is a person, how he is a brain and a heart and a breathing body that has the capability to better itself and do some good. Dutch focused on how he is a mind and an idea in waiting, a prodigy in making, how he can make a name for himself and how with training and enough web spinning, he can make himself bigger than he actually is.

He supposes he didn’t learn much from them, the first few years he’d rode with them he’d dedicated himself to proving that he’s useful, useful like his daddy taught him. He can shoot a gun, he can skin a deer and he can backtalk till fists are thrown, then he can knock a fool out and rob him blind. He’d simmered down to nothing but brawn, in his mind that is, nothing but the muscle to Dutch and Hosea’s plans, the back up, the sharpshooter, the enforcer. He’d built his entire character to what he remembers a man should be by his daddy’s standards, strong, rough and always a fighter.  _ You pick yourself up when you fall boy, _ he’d say, and Arthur obeyed. Arthur always picked himself up, Arthur never let anyone think he’s weak, Arthur always ignored the pain, no matter how hard that got, because he’s a man, and he needs to be a fighter, needs to be tough and grit his teeth.

He never really outgrew that, though Hosea would say that he’d gotten a little wise with it. He’s softened around the edges, years of building up a family, years of being told he’s worth something more than his gun, more than his blood shed. That he’s worth love and caring, that he deserves a life and chance, that he’s loved unconditionally.

Arthur had a taste of that, being enough of a fool to go knock a woman up and fall in love when he was supposed to only be doing the bare minimum of his part. He’d almost left, but Dutch had looked him in the eyes, told him that they need him, told him that the gang is more important and that his woman and child will be fine. Told him the bitter truth, told him that he’d put them in danger since he’s already well known for being a bank robber and a killer, told him that his baby boy won’t be as safe, that the beautiful woman he called his own would be put under the eyes of the law. And he believed it, because it was true, because it hurt enough to feel true. And he stayed, and two years later, he regretted it with his very being.

That seemed to be a pattern, maybe Arthur should have realized it by now, he always seems to lose what he held most valuable to him. Lost his mother, his father, his first lover, the mother of his child, his son, his friends and everyday,  _ everyday _ he gets closer to losing another. He almost lost John in those mountains, thought Hosea would succumb to the weather too. He lost Mac and Davey, the two men who he felt were as close as friends can be to him, almost brothers, vicious as they were, they were living the way Dutch had taught them all to live, wild and free, and Arthur could respect that. Not to mention Jenny, she’d just started to warm up to them, and they’d barely formed a small comradely with her before that faithful bullet hit her in the chest. She was younger than most of them, closer to Lenny, but she was an old soul and a wise girl, fierce as they come, too.

He often feels guilty about them, Sean being MIA, presumed dead until otherwise, the two corpses on the mountain and Mac hadn’t even gotten a grave, just Dutch seeing him get shot and dragged by his horse till he was too far for any of them to help him. Maybe if he’d been there, maybe he could’ve done something, maybe he could’ve shot the people who killed his friends. Maybe he’d be dead instead of them. 

It doesn’t feel right, being alive with men and women younger than him six feet under. Mac had been twenty five, Davey twenty eight, Sean twenty two. All so young, too young to die but too wild to live, in society’s eye.

If Arthur could say it out loud, he would. They were cursed, right from the beginning, but not the magic  type of curse. It hadn’t ever been easy, there had always been a mistake in their judgment, a civilian getting caught in the cross fire, a guard they hadn’t accounted for, the presence of a magic holder, the law having a tip about their plan. Never had it ever gone as smoothly as they wanted, always ended in gunpowder and blood.

It seemed fitting, that Arthur gets cursed as soon as things start to look up, just as the gang started to rejoice and pass their grieving. Nature never liked them, or at least never liked  _ him _ .  If he didn’t know better he’d say he’d been cursed since he’d been nothing but a wee boy, innocent and naive with two parents full of love to each other.

He doesn’t even want to start thinking down that path, how that ended in blood and tears and trauma he’d never really gotten time and energy to sort out.

His thoughts have always been a flurry, and he’s thankful that they tamed down as he starts to slowly pull himself out of their webs and into the real world. He’d been half awake for a while now, awake enough to register the smell of cigar smoke and the soft sounds of waking animals but not awake enough to pull his eyes open and start his day, awful as he feels.

His mind feels like a soup made of molasses, and he wades through it trying to reach for full consciousness but it pulls back, whenever he’s close, he finds himself gliding back with a wave of tiredness, like his body is pointedly telling him to give up.  _ Just give up _ , but he won’t, because he’s a fighter and… and he knows that something will happen if he does. He can feel the dread wrapping his heart, begging him to do the opposite,  _ fight and keep fighting _ because the alternative is death, or worse.

He grapples at the seams of his consciousness, holds on to the sound of birds chirping and whoever is near him humming, listens real good, keeps in mind that he’ll die,  _ you’ll die if you don’t _ and it’s that fear that helps him pull against the thickness of whatever is holding him back. At this point, he’s awake enough to know it’s not something in his body calling for him to submit, it’s something  _ on _ his body, something that shouldn’t be here, and he has a pretty good guess of what it might be.

The dread washes him cold, and he fights his own mind, pulling and tugging at whatever he can to wake up. His finger twitches, and that’s about all he manages before he’s dragged back again, sinks into the molasses but keeps his head above. It’s a struggle, but he can pull through, if he can just hold on a while longer.

He concentrates again, the birds have stopped, footsteps now replacing the humming but the smell of smoke is still in the air. For a moment, he can feel the liquid around him thicken even more, sinking him down, but then it lets up and there’s a loud bang outside. Not quiet a gun, but just as loud.

He pauses, the molasses thins and he pulls himself up again, just as he starts to feel hopeful, the liquid pulls him down by the ankle, and there’s another bang. It thins, and he tries again, this time, he’s not pulled down, instead, a wave tries to drown him and he closes his eyes.

When he realizes that he’s under, he opens them frantically, and instead of seeing the darkness of his mind, or the roof of his tent, he’s faced with nature. He can see the trees and can feel himself walking, or generally moving, it feels too smooth to be walking. He turns around against his will and if he could express his shock, he would’ve. He can see the camp, can see Hosea and the men watching as he charges at them, and a split second before he does, there’s a bright wall the pushes him back, a bang, then another wave pulls him.

He opens his eyes, only to realize he’s back in his mind, and the wave has brought him back. He’s more worried about the how rather than the why, if he’ll be as disembodied if he gives up and live his life as a presence he can’t control. It’s only a moment later when he realizes that he attacked the camp, or the camp’s security wall to be more specific. What’s even more worrying is that it pushed him back, it had never done that,  _ shouldn’t  _ do that since he’s one of the people allowed to pass through it.

Maybe it wasn’t  _ him _ that attacked, by the glimpse he had of Hosea’s face, he was definitely looking down at something he’d never seen before, or didn’t wish to see. He tries to wake up, pulls himself away from the depth of the wave, swims to where he can see the threads hanging and he pulls on them, climbs them like a rope but he doesn’t get enough time to fully remove himself. Another bang, and this time theres a sound following, like glass shards against each other, sounds close enough to what he hears when he sharpens his knife. He can feel it, can feel the satisfaction of the wall cracking, but it’s not  _ his _ satisfaction, all he feels is fear and gut wrenching  _ wrongness _ .

There’s a fuss outside, Arthur focuses on it, holding the thread he’s climbing on tightly as a wave washes over him, and he knows that if he falls this time, the wall will break, the thing that had attacked camp will be in, whatever the wall had reacted to so strongly. He holds on for dear life, can feel a nagging presence pull at his ankle, begging him to let go but he won’t.

Another bang, another screech from a fracture in the wall and the dread seeps colder, clutches his heart, holds him accountable and he begs himself to fight it.  _ For everyone’s sake, keep your head above.  _ And he tries, he starts climbing again, the waves become more frequent, become more dire, the thing out there clawing at him to stay down. But he won’t.

_ Get away _ , He thinks desperately,  the thread under him thins like it deflated, he slides a few paces down but tightens his grip to keep himself out of the sea under him. He climbs again, pulls himself against the weakening thread,  _ No, _ it’s stretching under him, keeps dipping him into the sea, and whenever he tries to get higher, it stretches longer to keep him down.  _ NO _ , he’s knee deep in again, claws desperately at the thread before it snaps entirely and he falls back, sinking into the sea and feeling the waves pull him under,  _ No, no, no,  _ he has to keep trying, if the immense amount of satisfaction a part of him feels is to go by anything, he’d failed what he so desperately wanted to do. He’s under again and he can’t swim anymore.

_ No _ , he repeats to himself  _ No, no, no, no,  _ he can’t have failed, now whatever is outside will get him, will get  _ all _ of them. He’d doomed them all, he’d basically handed them their death sentences. He struggles, listening for anything, but there’s nothing under the thick blanket of tiredness. The fight leaves him, and he sinks further, the liquid pulling him by the neck downwards, towards the abyss of his mid. Distantly, he hears a crash and realizes the consequences of his failure.

He’s dead, already, but the others will die too,  _ Hosea _ and  _ Dutch, John _ , even little  _ Jack _ . He failed them,  _ No _ he thinks, he can’t let them get killed because he’s too weak. He needs to pull himself together.

His eyes snap open, he can’t see a thing but he can swim through the hold on him, swims and kicks out, pulling the cord dragging him down from his neck, he can fight, he needs to, or they will  _ die _ because of him.  _ No _ , he won’t let that happen.

He finally reaches the top, and light flashes everywhere, like a world on fire, he’s blinded by the light but at least he can move again. He fights against the remaining viscous liquid around him. The light becomes brighter and for a moment he thinks maybe his eye’s will burn out but then there’s nothing, no sound around him, for only a moment, before there’s another bang and a loud squeak.

Arthur pulls his eyes open hurriedly, pushing himself off and tripping in his haste, he stumbles a few steps, a new mission in his mind as he pushes through his tent; unstable enough to fall to his knees but that’s not important as he stands up again, he needs to personally tell whatever is going to kill them to  _ fuck off _ , or he’s sure he needs to.

The noose around his neck burns again, this time it feels like molten iron on his skin but he ignores it, no matter how many tears spring out of his eyes from it, he needs to get that thing away from camp. He pushes away several people as he makes his way to where Hosea is standing, eyes closed,and hand outstretched with magic circling his fingertips. Dutch beside him worriedly examining the wall, now visible only because of the crack through it. Arthur stands beside Hosea, blinking at the wall like it’s beyond the capability of his brainpower, his one part of his mind screams at him to get closer, the other to turn and run away as fast as he can, he ignores both, for the moment.

“Arthur,” Dutch hisses and Hosea opens his eyes in response, staring at Arthur with shock as his hand lowers slowly. He looks like he has something to say but Arthur ignores him as he gets closer to the wall, and whatever is on the other side, obscured by the cracks in the wall, steps closer too. Arthur can feel it, like a hook behind his heart, a tension behind his navel linking them together. The figure is nothing but a shape of black, save for the two glowing orbs which he assumes are it’s eyes. The figure is barely as tall as Arthur’s waist, but it stretches till it’s as thin as a pole and as tall as Arthur. He can feel the giddiness of it, how it sways in anticipation, like it had been waiting for him.

“Go away,” he demands and the presence in his mind turns sour, satisfaction bleeding away into annoyance, the tension rises, almost to the point of pain in his stomach but he pointedly ignores it, choosing to glare at the figure, “Leave,” he orders again and the presence pushes itself against the wall and for a second, hissing as the wall pushes it back.  Arthur sways towards it, the hook tugging him as the figure takes several steps back, but he fights the feeling as soon as he realizes he’s now mere inches away from the wall, he takes a step back in defiance and the presence turns angry “I said:  _ go away _ !” he shouts, the noose around his neck tightening like a threat and after a few tense moments where Arthur stubbornly doesn’t let himself succumb to the choking, finally,  _ finally  _ the presence disappears, the hook behind his heart loosens and the tension breaks as he falls to his knees in exhaustion.

His mind screams again, but he barely registers the thoughts as he gasps for air, face feeling overly warm as the blood rushes back. He can’t deny that a part of him had wanted the presence there, had begged him to leave it break the wall but the sane part of him, the part he knows is not affected by the curse felt wrong beside the presence, felt unsafe and suffocated. But the first part wins over him as he sobs on the ground, feeling lost with the presence away.

His body burns and his blood runs through his veins rapidly, his heart beats irregularly and he can hear it in his ears. He’s  _ sad _ , sad that whatever was going to kill them had left, because a part of him belonged with it, it makes him sick but he doesn’t have enough energy to fight anymore. They’re safe, for now. He plants his palms against the soil to hold himself up, he realizes now that he’s  _ glowing _ or as close to glowing as he can be. His veins are a bright shade of blue, red and black symbols decorating his arms down to his finger tips. They’re fading around his palm, Arthur traces a shape idly.

He can’t bring himself to worry about them, a testament to how tired he is, he breathes in as much air a he can, trying to force the noose around his neck to loosen a bit more. Arthur blinks away the darkness around his vision, the fact that the entire camp is probably watching him providing enough panic that he musters up a bit of energy to push himself to his feet against the weakness that strikes him, knees feeling like jelly and bones like water.

He takes in a deep breath, wincing as he tastes metal on his tongue, his blood, probably. He turns to them and to no surprise, the gang is huddled together in a semi circle. Dutch and Hosea watch him worriedly, Hosea muttering under his breath, probably a spell to bind the wall back together. He takes a step forward, legs heavy as he drags them, but he pushes himself, moves slowly past Dutch, shaking his head when he moved to stop him. He takes careful steps towards his tent, thankful that the events are shocking enough that no one else disturbed his journey back from where he emerged.

As soon as the tent shades him, Arthur collapses, luckily landing on his bed; though the position is awkward. He doesn’t care, he can probably sleep on top of a jaded rock and he’d still give minimal damns. Sleep takes him faster than he’d expected but he doesn’t mind, assured that this time, he won’t be drowning in his own mind. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but oh well, I felt a bit inspired.

In all of Hosea's 60 something years of living, and in his 30 years of being a spellcaster, he'd never seen anything like the monster that tried to breach their camp. It had radiated anger, had almost wrapped his brain with seething fury while he tried to banish it. The wall had trembled in its presence, it called out its warnings, fought and repelled all it could and Hosea could  _feel_ it break, deep inside his chest; his magic reacting to the crack. The feelings, all of them, the anger, the warning, the _heat_ of a magic entity, had intensified, had become thick and vicious, and then Dutch had whispered,  _Arthur._

 _And it made sense_ , when he'd opened his eyes Arthur  _glowed_. His eyes were nothing natural like murky water had filled his eyeballs. No pupils, no iris, just two spheres. Blue-green tainted with red and brown, face  _engraved_ , littered with sigils, signs, and letters he recognizes only barely. Dutch, on the other hand, had stared with scared eyes, had kept his eyes on the bright red and deep deep black covering Arthur. He didn't look...entirely human, not at that moment. He'd stared, right at the...the demon, the  _entity_. He'd _demanded_ it go away, and the entity obeyed, it  _listened_ and it seemed unhappy but it accepted the demand and left. After several failed banishing spells, almost breaking a two-decade-long wall made of the strongest magic Hosea and Dutch had found, and it had only taken a few words from Arthur to drive it away. Like a loyal dog, it had left when told to. 

Or at least, he had assumed so.

It's only a few hours later after Arthur had fallen again into the clutches of sleep and left the entire camp to gossip, Hosea sensed it lurking. The wall was still repairing itself, and it was still in alert mode, he'd felt _it_ at the edge of the forest. Dutch had banished anyone from exiting camp once Hosea had shared the news. They don't know what they're dealing with, a demon that wants a vessel (highly unlikely, Hosea had encountered only one demon in his lifetime....or  _half_ of one) or a summon trying to lure them out to attack. He had an inkling that it was calling out for Arthur, since it bent to his command, and he didn't like it  _one bit._

The camp gossiped and whispered to each other, the men not so subtle as the women. Bill was talking about the supernatural things he'd encountered in his days as an army man, Lenny had whipped out a book (an _encyclopedia)_ on _all entities and their dangers._ John was pacing, Charles had taken out his charmed arrows and started sharpening them. Micah was freely expressing his concerns to a tired and busy Dutch, and Hosea had simply checked that Arthur no longer resembled a witch. His skin had returned to its normal rosy color, and he looked absurdly...normal. Not like the being that had stepped up and talked to the entity, he looked like the kid he'd rescued, just a run down version; drooling on his bed and body half off the frame. 

"I  _mean_ ," Micah's piercing voice slithered into Hosea's ears, and he turned to watch Dutch walk out his tent, exasperated and with a large book in his hands. Micah was at his tail, hands motioning wildly, "don't you think it's safer if he's  _not_ here?" he asks and Dutch turns abruptly, almost making Micah collide into him, but the outlaw simply stepped back and raised his arms as a sign of peace, "I'm just thinking of the  _children_ , I don't want little Jack and the women hurt because of him, and I bet he wouldn't neither." 

"Yes, Arthur would probably agree," Dutch sighs, head turning towards the drawn-shut tent, "That's because Arthur is a  _dumbass_ when it comes to himself, and his safety. He is in as much danger as us, at least he can  _send it away_ ," 

"But it wouldn't _be_ here no more, _if he left_!" Micah hisses, "It's after him, we  _all know_ it's after _him,_ why do  _we_ have to deal with  _his_ problems!" He argues and Dutch turns to move away, fingers tighter around the book now. Micah schools his tone before continuing "as I said... women and children,"

"Yet I see none of them complaining as much as you," Dutch shoots back as he leaves, glare pinning Micah to his spot as the leader leaves, heading towards where Hosea watched the exchange. He gives a nod, taking his place by Hosea and holding the book out for him.

 _"Sir Antoine's accurate stories and adventures in the world of the supernatural,_ " Hosea reads, an amused huff escaping him, "What's in it that's so interesting?" he asks, flipping it open to a random page. The hand-drawn illustrations are still prominent, even after several decades worth of usage. The beast that stares from the page is familiar, a minotaur, sinking its horns into a man's stomach, body covered in blood as several other corpses layer the ground. The faces of said people are all drawn over, at the hands of teenage Arthur and John. Silly faces and scribbles, ink a pale red against the dark lines of the original drawings. He remembers when they first discovered Arthur had drawn over the illustration as an act of rebellion against the reading lesson. He'd been only fifteen? sixteen? he'd been a child, one that didn't take kindly to being punished by being forced to read a thousand-something page book. 

Dutch had almost lost his mind about it.

"Page seven hundred and seventeen, the tale of Flavius Andreas of Rome," Dutch says, a bit dramatic as he rocks on the balls of his feet, " _the beast of a thousand nights, the murderer of a hundred men, with the strength of a dozen."_   he recites as Hosea struggles to pull the book open. The pages flutter between his fingers as he finally settles on the page, eyebrows knitting together at the drawing under his fingertips. A stark black background with a man drawn in white in it, chained and looking deranged, teeth sharp, eyes plain, with nothing but white in them. Ears concave like a dog, or a  _wolf,_ arms and feet long,  _too long_ , like they'd been stretched, close to how a young wendigo would have. "A werewolf,"

"Werewolf..." Hosea echos turning the page and reading a few sentences.

_\--and three nights after, a piercing howl had erupted and terrorized the streets. Men were forced to face the beast that lurked, a human, a wolf. Fifty men fell before the beast had run, and I was yet again set to search after its bloody trail--_

_\--this time, I had stumbled upon a withering tree, tall and dark. The hands of darkness had engulfed it, and as I tread on, it had screamed and creaked. But I had not cowered, for I had a beast to catch, and the tree had held the answers away--_

_\--Ten arrows and a sword to the neck, the beast fought on with no force holding it back. Long legs had pounced, sharp claws had scratched, teeth had snapped at my neck. I had never feared for my life such as that moment, the beast had had me pinned, and I had felt the reaper draw closer. But I hadn't given up, with all my force, I had drawn the sword back from its neck and struck it in its large head. Dark fur had gotten soiled with blood as the beast let out an almighty roar, and to my surprise, it had started to shrink. Long arms grew fingers, claws into nails, sharp teeth had fallen like raindrops and its roars had turned into screams. A young lad had sat in the dirt, a dark mist had escaped him, had flown off into the starry sky--_

Dutch waited as Hosea turned another page, eyebrows arching at the beast in the paper. It's no werewolf, a werewolf doesn't look half as big as this beast seems to be. Eyes black, teeth protruding from its mouth, edges of its mouth drawn back like some demonic smile. Its body had been thick with muscle, fur thick around its neck, long long powerful looking legs holding it up as it stares down at the tiny looking man. No...this isn't a werewolf.

"I ain't sure what to properly call it, Antoine had called it a beast, a monster, a hell-incarnate, but never a proper name," Dutch explains after a moment, as Hosea traces the shape of the beast. He tries to imagine Arthur in its place, but it doesn't fit. Never would he think Arthur could possibly be such a... a  _haunting_ thing. Black eyes stare at him, and he stares back, and it feels like the page is trying to tell him something because his eyes are frozen on the beast and his mind tries to burn the image into his mind. Arthur Morgan, _human_ , sarcastic, skilled Arthur Morgan is this  _monster?_  "The mist is mentioned a couple of time, and it always leaves when the human is killed," Dutch points out, "it moves from person to person, is my theory. And if we assume that that's the case, then _maybe_ its previous host had died and the first person it met was Arthur." 

"Sounds plausible," Hosea agrees, shaking his head for a moment, forcing himself to close the book. He can't imagine Arthur as the beast, or the strange looking chained man. He deflates for a moment "but don't you think we would've heard of big... beasts walking around? We've been here, what? two weeks now? and  _no one_ mentioned it, you know town folk are all-too-happy to spread that type of news," Hosea points out and Dutch blinks, eyes trained forwards, away from Hosea. 

The silence stretches between them, and a strange tenseness grows under Hosea's collar. He feels the wall wane, a vibration deep in his chest, like a private earthquake. He turns, teeth clenching when he notices the overly dark spot between the trees. It's back, and the wall doesn't like it any more than it had. Hosea could feel the magic quiver in the presence, damage yet to be reversed. It won't stand another attack, would probably crumble at the first strike. The entity, mist,  _curse_ , Whatever it is, it stares; and Hosea feels dread seep into his chest turning him cold. 

Dutch notices the change too, wall connected to him as much as it is with Hosea, they had forged it together after all. It's barely a minute, but he could feel the dread freeze his lungs, making it harder to breatheTh as they continue to stare; and it's suddenly not so hard to imagine the beast. The camp quietens behind them, and the shadow of the beast runs away. The grip on Hosea's lungs loosen, and he blows a hard breath as he turns, freezing again when he's faced with Arthur's gaze. 

The sigils in his skin are a faint blue, fading into red around his fingertips; he stares curiously at Dutch and Hosea, unaware. He blinks owlishly as they stand, silent, staring at him in awe. His eyes, which had been previously a sea of blues and reds, are a stark white like the picture had warned. He still looked normally proportioned, thankfully, and his teeth are still normal. At least Hosea thinks they are, he isn't too sure he wants to check. "What?" Arthur's voice almost makes him jump out of his skin, and he blinks to steel himself in. Arthur isn't a beast, not yet...

Hosea dreads to think about it, shakes his head in an attempt to clear out his thoughts. Dutch had sauntered over, hands hovering over the ever-fading sigils on Arthur's skin, careful not to touch it. Arthur steps away from Dutch, face pulling into a snarl. Dutch, caught off guard, raises a hand to show he had no malicious intent behind the touch. But Arthur continues to hold the distance between them, eyes growing darker, once white now a dull grey. Acting  _strange_ , driving away the entity only by his presence, distancing himself. 

Arthur turns with no other word, leaving Dutch rooted in his spot, a puzzled expression painting his face. Hosea watches, equally as confused, if not more worried, as Arthur heads to the boiling pot. He stares, and stares, and continues to  _stare at the pot_  like it holds the worlds secret. "You think it's starting?" Dutch asks and Hosea purses his lips, taking in a deep breath, staring at Arthur's back as he sniffs at the stew pot.

"It already started, Dutch," he answers grimly, "can't you see?"

 

 

 

If there's one thing Arthur knows well, it's anger. He'd grown up with the feeling, stowed it, used it, made his amends with it. But it boils his blood now, wakes him up in cold sweat, makes his hand shake.  _Come to me_ , it calls, and Arthur feels another surge of anger, and he knows, deep inside that the thing he'd banished is what's talking to him.  _Talking_ is a faraway term, it's a mute thrum with a meaning inside his head, a weight behind his navel like he's  _missing something_. His fingers curl and he flexes his hands before the urge is too strong and he pushes his tent open, ignoring the stares thrown his way, ignores the tremble in his spine. It's  _there_ , his eyes focus on it almost instantly. Dark, a  _shadow_ , but it calls for him. And he wants to obey, it would be easy to step over the boundary, exit the dome that protects them. That _separates_ them. But he stops, watches as the shadow stares, but not at him, no, at the men a few paces in front of Arthur. 

 _Not yet_ , a subtle vibration in the back of Arthur's mind, a hum, like a lullaby. And then it leaves, and Arthur feels no less angry, his skin prickles and his teeth clench. He's hungry,  _starving,_ in fact. But he can wait because Dutch is looking at him, lips parted like he's about to talk, but his eyes rake over Arthur's body before meeting his eyes. A spark, deep in Arthur's mind blows, and his hands feel numb by his side. It's dangerous, the drive he feels. Blood on fire, veins filled with rage,  _hunger_.  _Wrap and squeeze_ , watch the life drain out of him, kill him, see his blood.  _That's Dutch_ , he tells himself, flinching away when Dutch's hand gets too close, and he can barely hold back a growl, turning it into a scowl as he moves away.  _Blood_ , that's what he needs, to fill his hunger.  _But not Dutch_ , he urges himself, _no one, no humans, no_. It's a mantra in his head, as he forces himself away from Dutch's hurt gaze, stomps over to the stew, and this time, it's not his own thoughts that fill his mind.

 _Don't eat that_ , a demand, in his voice, in his head. The pot bubbles, potatoes, herbs, an assortment of meats all rising to the surface.  _It's not what we need, you know what we need,_ the voice grows steadily rougher. A force behind his eyes, a headache along his temples,  _we don't need them, we need to eat,_ a potato sinks,  replaced by a carrot slice. Arthur watches it bob up and down, sink and float.  _You know what to do_ , no he doesn't, not really. Kill, that's the only thing that comes to mind, but he won't, despite the fire under his skin, despite the pain behind his jaw.

"Arthur?" 

 _You know what we need_ , but he doesn't want to, but he can't help it. His chest is tight, and an anvil had sunk deep in his gut, bile in his throat,  _we need to_ , but do they?  _Yes,_ it answers curtly, and Arthur doesn't really have much of a drive to refuse. His hand burns and he snaps his head towards the speaker. He stutters for a moment, John's concerned face swimming into his view,  _I can't_ , he  _won't_ , no one deserves to get hurt in here. Not because of him, he won't  _kill_. But it's hard to fight it, and his grip on sanity slowly slips as his eyes flicker from _John_ to _Bill_ , sitting on the table, to _Charles_ , watching cautiously. _Abigail_ holding little  _Jack, Tilly, Karen, Mary-Beth._ People he'd known for  _years_ ,  _months, decades._

Slowly, he makes his retreat and there's only one thing on his mind,  _I need to get away_ , he whatever is speaking to him, drawing him in,  _tempting him_ , he can't control. He turns around, looks at where the horses are, his lips draw to a scowl,  _on foot,_ because his horse doesn't deserve to get hurt.  _Run, then,_ the voice muses,  _come to me._

He does, like a trigger in his mind, it makes sense. He needs to go away, to keep them safe, and to rejoice with the missing piece that burns his chest. Whatever he'd drove away calls for him, and he runs, passes the wall in a quick step, runs into the trees and gets stricken by a sense of relief.  ~~~~ _Not his though,_ ~~~~no, it's a cloud fuzzing his brain and it beckons him. And he's the one to obey this time. He doesn't stop running, not when he notices the echoing footsteps behind him, not when the trees break and he passes the railroad. The deer peak and run, the wild horses flee, and he can feel the darkness behind him, but it _invites him._  

 _Don't stop running_ , because the chase is the fun part. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, the werewolf! Arthur in my mind in his werewolf form had the head of a normal wolf, the body of a generic werewolf, and the limbs of a wendigo.
> 
> Here are the best pics that I've found that kinda describes the werewolf form:
> 
> Head: https://www.sciencephoto.com/media/387030/view/head-of-a-snarling-grey-wolf-canis-lupus-
> 
> Body: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/590745676099465115/?lp=true
> 
> Limbs: https://stephenking.fandom.com/wiki/Wendigo

Arthur figures out why it feels so familiar when the shadow falls behind, the trees surround him as he works all his energy out, eerily similar to his dream. Except, this time, he’s not afraid. The anger that had burned him is just a gentle thrum, coursing through him and ebbing at his fingertips. He runs, kicking up dirt, shoulders drew tight as his lips freeze on a scowl, teeth hurt like someone had plucked them one by one. His mind is blank, other than the urge to seek, to run and to  _hunt_. But  _not yet_ , the chase isn't over, and there's a trail he needs to follow. The shadow is half a step behind him, mirroring him. It huffs, growls and breathes close to his knees. It reminds him of Copper, his little (wasn't so little) dog that had passed a few years back. The images flicker through his mind, as a teenager finding the puppy, running alongside him, hunting together, playing by lakes, throwing sticks, swimming together. Happiness, fond memories, like snapshots of his past flashing in front of him, He can't see the trees anymore, just images, Copper and John tugging at each other, Copper jumping around Hosea, Dutch running after Copper chasing after his stolen novel.  _1878, Arthur teaching Copper commands. 1879, Copper bringing back sticks and throwing them into the fire unprompted. 1880, Copper sitting on a wounded Arthur's lap, growling at a concerned Grimshaw._ _1881, Copper chasing away a stray Cayote that_ _had snuck into camp. 1882, Copper caught shredding one of Hosea's rather expensive shoes. 1883, Copper warming up to a young, skittish John._  

When he finally stops, cold air under his feet. The shadow stands in front of him, and he pinpoints their location. He'd run all the way to Heartland Overflow, the water glistened under the paling sky, and his muscles still circulate with a  _need_. The shadow, vaguely dog shaped, hops onto its hind legs, placing two smoky paws on his shoulder. Black _smoke_. It's no shadow, no, he was a fool to think so. It's a being of smoke and  _heat. Hellfire,_  his mind supplies. The paws on his shoulder burn his skin, but it fills the hole behind his chest. Staring at this dog-shaped being, the curse, the _missing piece._  Red orbs slowly glow, ready to welcome him and it's  _thisclose_ , they can finally be  _one_. The ebb of power through his body, every breath loud to his ears, it feels so _right._  A part of his mind  _screams_. Cries out that  _no, he can't_. Two decades of experience tells him that it's wrong. The shadow growls, orbs fading into what he assumes is its head,  _smoke. lots and lots of smoke. It wraps his mind, eyes falling shut,_ lullabies in his mind. His mother's voice, singing a Welsh song to him. He doesn't remember any of the meanings, but the song is still engraved in his mind, at nine years old, Arthur had memorized the song. 

  _"_ _Paham_ _mae_ _dicter_ _, o Myfanwy,_ _yn_   _llenwi'th_ _lygaid_ _duon_ _di?"_ like the phonograph that Dutch so often plays, it resonates in his own head, bumping around his skull. The sound surrounds him, the soft tone, meant to be a choir song, but his Momma sung it well, in quiet loving whispers. Images start to resurface again, his Momma, on his birthday, bringing out a cake she'd spent the day baking. His pa was out, so it was a peaceful day. She'd sung to him, and they had danced in the backyard. She had allowed him to ride Pepper, her horse, the one she treasured and loved like a daughter.  _Sunshine, birds chirping, flowers scenting the air. Pepper had rocked under him as they trotted up and down the street. Beatrice had held the reigns, smiled wide and happy up at him, "You're doing great,_ _fy_ _mab_ _, my sweet boy._ _Rwyf_ _wrth_ _fy_ _modd_ _gymaint_ _â chi,"_  

 _"_ _Caru_ _chi_ _hefyd_ _, momma"_  

" _Stop_ " Someone shouts, just as the emptiness in Arthur's mind fills with another memory. 

 _Green grass_ _, sounds of metal against porcelain plates, the smell of well-cooked food,_ _a proper meal for the first time in...too long. Meat and vegetables and rice, silver spoon in his hands, hands that aren't dirty anymore, no. His skin had smelled of Lavender, his hair was wet and sweet smelling too_ _,_ _he could still feel the bubbles popping against his skin, hopes that he could bathe again soon_ _. The window had poured sunlight into the restaurant, and the older gentleman had smiled at him,_ _blond hair turning white,_ _teeth strangely_ _pearly, he_ _spoke to him gently. "What's your name, son?"_  

 _"Arthur," he said, stuffing a spoonful into his mouth, not sure when the food will disappear from under him._  

 _"It's nice to meet you, Arthur," The older gentlemen smiled, watching as Arthur shoveled the food into his mouth, hands flipping his once-stolen-now-returned wallet "My name is Hosea Matthews,"_  

The image freezes, darkening at the edges, turning into a whole different scenario. He can hear the sounds of hooves surround him, but it's distant, and not a concern. For now. 

 _The sun had set, and the darkness was never his favorite. But he's by a campfire now, with Dutch and Hosea firing off spells into the air, making pretty shades of pinks, yellows, and greens swirl around them. Arthur watches, mesmerized, book heavy in his lap as he tries to study the fascinating magic. Greek, Latin, Arabic, Polish. Nothing had stuck till now, nothing would stay in Arthur's mind, but Hosea and Dutch hadn't mind, they'd taught him slowly. "_ _coruscent_ _Arthur whispered, fingers twitching towards the sky. It's faint, barely lasted a handful of seconds, but it had been there, had fired into the sky to join the two elder men's magic. A pretty blue and purple, sparked like a dynamite's thread, disappeared in a moment but it had stayed long enough for Dutch and Hosea to notice._  

 _"There you go, Kid!" Dutch had grinned, wide, proud. Hosea had smiled too, passed him another piece of grilled venison._  

 _"I always knew you could do it," He had said, and Arthur hadn't felt this good about himself in a while._  

"Arthur, stop!"  

Another memory, the smoke fills his nose, like a burning house. The unpleasant smell is swept away,  _another memory._  

 _"You think you're tough, huh?" Twelve-year-old John, barely three months into his stay and he'd already jumped onto challenging the men around the camp. Grimshaw had_ _giggled from afar, copper had wagged his tail as he sat happily perched on the warm tree stump. Arthur laughed, landing a heavy hand on John's head, ruffling his overgrown hair._  

 _"Go bother Hosea, kid, I've got work to do," He said, and John had pounced on him. He was still skinny as a bow, and Arthur plucked him off easily, swinging him like a little baby. John scowled and kicked, screamed that it's unfair. After a moment, realizing it's fruitless, John stopped. "That's right, get a little more meat on your bones then maybe, maybe then I'll fight you,"_  

 _"You're no fun!" John whined, in true twelve-year-old fashion as Arthur let him drop to the ground._  

 _"Don't_ _wanna_ _make you any uglier, Marston,"_  

A gunshot, loud, out of place in the memory. Arthur blinks, smoke around him choking him as he realizes how it slides down his throat, burns his nose as it forces itself up in it. His hands are frozen, eyes open in panic as he is forced into breathing in the being. He choked, tries to cough it back up, but paws seem to claw at his lungs. He staggers, horrid tastes burning at his tongue.  _Smoked flesh, burnt, scathed. Blood, smoke, hellfire._ His lungs stop pulling in oxygen, and he can't breathe anything except the smokey being.  

It steels him, grips him seemingly from _inside,_ it's horrible, claws at his ribs dragging more pain out of him. The power he'd felt wasn't his and now is used against him. He falls, wishes he could cry out, and he can barely feel the ground collide with his stiff body. Muscles bound like he's been hogtied, but he can't even flex his fingers.  _We will_ be _one._  

It seems so foolish now, following the being out here but he can't bring himself to feel anything than panic. Guilt and regret try to poke at his mind, but nothing circles his mind except a song of swears and melody of pain. He can't see, not anymore but he knows his eyes are open because they burn from the air exposure. Tries to scream but nothing comes out, nothing but smoke coming in and coughs coming out. His teeth _hurt,_ like they grew too big for his gums, or his mouth had shrunk around them.  

" _Relinquent_ _eum_ " Another shout, and the claws that tear his lungs pause. Everything goes quiet for a moment, and his limbs unfreeze. He pulls in the first real breath, and instantly retches. He hauls himself to his side, legs numb as he gags and spits, trying to desperately get the taste of burning flesh from behind his teeth. There are hands grappling at his arm, and he shrinks away from them, lungs burning for a moment as he gasps and coughs, hands grabbing fistfuls of dirt.  

There's still the smell of smoke at his nose, probably from his own clothes.  _We are one._ His stomach lurches for a moment, a thrum to make the statement more clear. Arthur closes his eyes, and he can still see his momma's smiling face looking up at him.  

 _Rwyf_ _wrth_ _fy_ _modd_ _gymaint_ _â chi._  

It bounces in his mind, the language he'd forgotten after his momma passed resurfacing. The statement he'd forgotten the meaning to unraveling, decyphering in his mind. Word after word came up,  _Nos_ _,_ _Eto_ _,_ _Tabl_ _,_ _Gwn,_ _Cleddyf_ _,_ _Yfed_ _,_ _Bwyta_ _, Cwsg_ like skimming through a dictionary, everything seemed so  _clear_ like he'd never abandoned it. Rises and bubbles to the top, like vegetables in a stew, his mother's language, the one he'd felt like an outsider because of, the one he'd tried to hide away from Hosea and Dutch, it blossoms into his mind. It and every piece of language he'd learned and forgotten.  

 _We'll change for the better,_ it promised, the burn in his lung slowly fading its voice slowly morphing into his own, but it still had an unnatural tone to, just at the end of each syllable, it echos. His thoughts slowly settle, Welsh fresh on his mind, bits and pieces of Latin and Greek floating around, only a handful of Polish words, the few words Sean had taught him in Irish before they both inevitably got bored.  

 _"_ Arthur," Dutch's voice is close to his ears, and the train of thoughts, the jumble of words in his mind pops, vanishes into the depth of his mind. Some part of him feels smug, but he can't copy the feeling entirely, mouth soured by the taste. He sits up slowly, happy at the revelation that his body doesn't hurt like he expected. Footsteps surround him, and he shivers at the sound of crushing leaves, sticks breaking under someone's feet, something  _clicks_ in a distance. He blinks, squinting at the darkness or...lack of darkness. Curiously, he rubs at his eye, blinking again and staring at the trees ahead.  

Everything had...changed.  _For the better_ , it whispered and Arthur looked around again, not knowing exactly what he was supposed to feel. Whatever curse had followed him was now... _in_ him, and it changed him. He can feel it, the tremor in his hands,  they feel wrong by his side, so he plants them firmly against the ground, clawing at the dirt slightly. The ebb of energy running up his spine, ready to run and kill and hunt and whatever he needed be. His eyes are  _better_ , somehow, the darkness he knows should be around him is nowhere, the world a blue-yellow tint that brightens everything by several shades. It feels... 

 _Powerful?_  

Strange, it feels  _strange._   

"Arthur?" Uncertain and close, filled with concern and maybe a hint of fear.  _Hosea_. 

Arthur looks towards him, blinking at the three men standing, only a few paces away. Hosea, Dutch, and John.  _There are more_ , it warns but he doesn't mind, instead, he eyes the pistols in their palms. He looks back up at Dutch, who’s frowning deeply, famous pistols gleaming menacingly. "You gonna put me down, Dutch?" He asks, clearing his throat and spitting the last of the bitter taste. John relaxes his grip on his gun, shoulders slumping while he makes a move towards Arthur, concern radiating off of him but Hosea stops him. 

"What was that?" Hosea asks, distrust practically  _smell-able._ _I don't know,_  Arthur wants to say, but in the back of his mind, he does. 

"I think it's in me now," Arthur answers instead, "I...we're one now...or whatever, that's what it said, anyway,"  

“It said?” Dutch parroted, his frown turning into a confused curl of his lip. Arthur stares, knowing that he doesn’t have anything else to explain. It, whatever  _it_ is, was meant to be inside him, and now it is, and they are one, and they are…  

 _Powerful_  

They are powerful, and they can hunt, and kill, and whatever they want.  

 _We don’t have to answer to them_  

They don’t, Arthur agrees silently, and his stomach gives another lurch, a push to do something, or perhaps…  

 _Hungry._  

They need to eat, he hadn’t eaten in a good while. With a task at mind, Arthur stands, stretching out his arm when a spark of pain burst in his elbows. Hosea doesn’t lower his gun, neither does Dutch, both looking like they’re expecting Arthur to attack them.  

 _We could_  

_But we won’t_

“You’re really going to shoot me?” Arthur asks, this time not as jokingly, his eyes dart to Hosea’s gunbelt, then scans the actual revolver in his hands.  

 _Silver,_ it hisses, and the hair on the back of his neck stands,  anger mixed with fear rippling through his limbs, numbing his fingertips. There’s a  _need_ to attack, he knows he’s surrounded, can hear the sound of leaves crushing under feet, the scratch of jackets and coats against the bark of trees, someone’s pulling the hammer of their gun back.  

“Not if we don’t have to,” Dutch answers calmly, gun still aiming at Arthur’s chest.  _It s_ hifts inside him, his lungs burn for a moment, heart slowing as he stares.  

“You don’t have to do anything,” Arthur snaps back, taking a step backward. Dutch’s trigger finger twitches, and  _it_ finches at the threat.  

 _Surrounded_  

“Just let me go, Dutch” 

“Go where?” Hosea inquires, and Arthur snaps his attention towards him, “We don’t know what that  _thing_ was, we don’t know if it’ll hurt you,” 

 _I won’t_  

“It won’t,” Arthur repeats, assured blindly, and if he weren’t so threatened, he would see the absurdity that the others are seeing.  _You don’t know_ , he tells himself, but it’s a fair whisper in the back of his mind.  

“Did  _it_  tell you that?” Dutch raises an eyebrow, and Arthur falters for a moment, looking around, “You can’t run away, Arthur, the others are surrounding you,” 

“We won’t hurt you,” John assures, and Arthur snorts despite himself,  _it_ echoes his uncertainty, but the voice at the back of his head tells him to trust them.  

 _Silver will kill us, will kill **me**.  _ 

“Then why are you out here with you guns aiming at me?” He asks and Hosea deflates at the question, “Guns with  _silver bullets_ ,” he hisses.  

“We don’t even know if they’re effective!” John argues back, and Hosea sends him an annoyed glance. Wrong answer.  

“You  _can’t_ kill me, if you don’t want me around then just  _let me be!”_  he shouts, voice turning surprising threatening,  there’s an undertone to it, deeper, sounding more like  _it_ when  _it_ wasn’t in his body.  

Dutch flinches, and Hosea steps back, John raising his gun again. “You’re not okay, Arthur, you think we know what _that_ was but we’re not sure” he tries to reason, but  Arthur won’t have it, they don’t  _trust_ him, they don’t  _want_ him, they want to kill  _it_ ,  _them._  

_ Me? _

“I know what I-“ he pauses, eyes shifting between the men, “What  _it_ is,” 

“What is it then?” Dutch challenges. Arthur feels _it_  shift again,  neck heating as it moves up,  _up_ and settles around his mind, like a slight headache teetering on the edges of his brain. He shakes his head, one hand coming up to press against his temple, body _hating_ the change. It feels…  

 _Strange?_  

_Bad_

_It_ shifts again,  Arthur smells it as it slides down his face, stretching from the back of his neck till his throat, wrapping around his skull.  _Taking control._   

It feels odd, his skin feels like it’s shrinking around his frame, there’s a steady thrum behind his brain, eyes going unseeing. Then it starts to _hurt_ ,  his bones _crushed_ and remolded, skull turning into splinters inside his head, before they slowly stitch together. There's something _pressing_ , his neck and throat  _stretch_ , his eyes sinking into his skull like someone had jabbed their thumbs and _squeezed_.  His limbs ache, and before he can do anything, he feels his leg _snap_ , his bones twisting under some unknown pressure, skin pulled tautly and on the brink of breaking.

He can feel himself fall, screams when his spine _cracked,_ and he could feel it separate, something lodging itself where his spine once was, again, pulling and _pulling._ He can't  _stop it_ , and he truly is  _trying_ , he wants to go back to normal. He wants this to  _stop_ , whatever  _this is._

He claws at the ground helplessly,  a sharp ringing in his ear, and his vision returns briefly. He can  _see_ but he can’t move his head, something strangling him, ineffable pressure wrapping around the entirety of his body, and to his horror, he sees his teeth falling before he feels the pain. Lightning shoots down his fingers, and an itch grows under his skin, he wants to tear his own skin off because it seems like fire is  _under_ it. He can see his fingernails, but they are slowly getting pushed off by another _sharper_ set, blood staining the black _claws_ that tear through his rapidly changing skin, changing to a smoked _grey._

It _hurts._  

_Stop this_  He tries to ask, _beg_.

 _It_ doesn’t answer back, and he continues to suffer, now his ears burn like someone had _scalded_ them, his skin is still  _too tight_  around his frame. But there’s a sweeping feel of power in his muscles, and amidst the pain, it’s as good as morphine. Just when he thinks maybe this _won’t_ stop, that maybe Hosea is right, that maybe they should’ve shot him so he wouldn’t have to go through this, everything stills. He blinks, and everything stops hurting. There’s nothing but power beating the inside of his muscles, and it’s addicting already.  

 _We’re done_  

_What was that?_

“Arthur?” Hosea calls, and Arthur perks up, surprised to see that he’s almost towering over Dutch and John. He looks around, stumbling when he realizes he isn’t  _sitting,_ and _he_  isn’t  _lying_ on the ground...

and he has goddamn _paws_. Or... that term doesn't seem to fit, they're somewhere between  _paws_ and  _hands_ because he seems to have four  _fingers_ but no thumb and they're covered in _fur_. Motherfucking  _fur._  

_What the fuck_

He tries to say it out loud, and he’s disturbed to hear that instead of words he let out a _bark._  

More like a _yip,_  at least it sounds as  _confused as he is_. He turns around himself, twisting to survey what happened to him, taking in the look of his body. Did he turn into...  a  _werewolf?_  

It’s the only logical explanation, but from what he sees of himself, that being the very end of his body and directly below his head, he doesn’t _look_ like any of the werewolves he’d encountered. His legs stretch behind him for a good 3 feet, muscles he  _definitely_  didn’t have bulging under dark grey skin. And he has  _fur_ now, Black all over, only dark-grey at the matted parts of his... _paws_.  

_What the fuck_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is slowly turning into a venom-esque fic, and I don't know if I should change that or not.


	6. Chapter 6

The change from man to beast had always been depicted as a powerful and painful experience. One where man becomes a monster, gaining abilities no other ordinary human could match.

In every book Dutch had read, from his father’s to the ones he bought from ominous sellers, even the ones he’d stolen from abandoned witch covens, it is always described as just that. Powerful and painful.

But nobody mentioned horrifying.

Dutch had noticed the changes as soon as they started, the slight stretch of Arthur’s skin, like water had been boiling and bubbling underneath. His ears had sharpened at the top, his skin had started to get pale but most of all, he noticed his eyes. From their rich blue color to a pale silver, almost as white as flour, matching the whites of his eyes and only separated by the ring of his iris and defined by the circle of his pupils. Then, between one blink and the next, not even those were left, his pupils had gone impossibly thin, iris disappearing completely.

Only then, it seemed, Arthur had started to notice the changes too, his face turning an alarming shade of white as his face twists in pain. The sickening sounds of bones breaking and clothes tearing were almost overshadowed by Arthur’s pained grunts and mild screams. They had watched, frozen as his hands stretched and molded itself into long long fingers with a thin almost brittle looking wrist. His skull had caved in on itself at one point, then reshaped itself into a more wolf-like structure, Arthur’s lips tearing as his jaw molded.

It was equal parts fascinating and gut-wrenching. John had looked away as soon as the skin started to tear, and his teeth started to fall and his neck started to bend in odd ways as he writhes in pain.

Almost too suddenly, it all stopped, and only then had Dutch realized that not only had Arthur grown wider, muscles pulsating and twitching, but he had also gotten taller. The Beast in front of him was almost as tall as two of him, long long limbs, just as the book had described. There was a fine layer of fur on him, nothing like a normal Werewolf, where their coats were often thick and heavy for protection. This Beast didn’t need protection, the muscles rippling under the fur were enough, the teeth on his wolf head were enough.

If someone asked him to describe how The Beast looked, he would be unable to reply, because it didn’t look like anything he’d seen before. It looked like a man tried to play God but had no creativity. A wolf head, with an enlarged almost-human-but-not-quite torso and twisted legs, ones that almost look like a Wendigo’s but...odd? Even more unnatural?

The sight almost made him shiver, because only a few minutes prior, Arthur had been in its stead. Arthur, a human, and nothing more than that in his eyes. Not a Beast, not a monster, not this twisted version of a Werewolf. Human, delightfully human.

The Beast’s fur has almost made it impossible to sight without knowing exactly where it is, if he were to be hunting it, Dutch would have lost it, surely. But to its disadvantage, it was a hulking figure, casting a shadow across the clearing.

“Arthur?” Hosea had hesitantly said, and Dutch tensed as The Beast turned to look at them; and for a single moment, Dutch could almost see Arthur behind the white glowing orbs that stared at him. The Beast made a choked sound, almost like a bark, halfway to a growl. Confused, it was confused.

Arthur was confused.

It was almost relieving, seeing that Arthur still had somewhat of a grip on himself. The Beast that had spoken in Arthur's voice, with Arthur’s face, had reacted negatively to their silver weaponry but the sheer size of it made Dutch uncertain if it would truly be effective.

If it was, would it kill Arthur too?

A normal Werewolf would die from a silver bullet to the heart, or, if you want to go the hard way around, by cutting their heads off and burning it. Human and Wolf, both parts of a Werewolf would die. But this, whatever is controlling Arthur, whatever The Beast is, is sentient on its own, it didn't need Arthur. Dutch had a suspicion it was only using him as a more accessible medium. A curse, Hosea had first said, but nothing like any curse they had encountered.

The Beast raises a paw, and Dutch almost flinches at the size of his claws. Long four fingers, and it looks like what should be a humans thumb had bent and shaped itself fully into a claw at the back of his paw-hand- whatever it was, ordinary terminology isn’t what Dutch would use for this Beast.

The Beast tries to take a step behind, but stumbles on its own tail and ends up staggering to the side. Its paws thudded as it tries to stabilize itself. Its almost a funny sight, if the situation wasn’t so concerning. Somewhere at the back of his mind, a part of him is relieved. This is definitely Arthur shining through, not used to walking around on four limbs, and none that are that long and this different from his body.

It growls again, planting one paw defiantly, rearranging the rest till it’s standing tall and stable. Only then does it start to take interest in them, and something almost audibly shifts. The Beast no longer held Arthur behind its eyes, black seeping through into the pearly whites of its eyes, and its growl turns hostile instead of simply annoyed and confused.

Everyone seems to pick on the shift in the air, the danger rising, even more, when The Beast bends it’s head low, almost lowering it to Dutch’s level and its lip draws back into a scowl. Dutch, although with seeds of doubt in his chest, starts to tally up the spells he can use against it if it comes to strike. Hosea seems to be on the same page, hand fidgeting and ready to cast.

By the laws of their respective magic, Dutch is the one who should be quiet, casting them in silence and summoning the Unholy Beings with only his inner voice. Sly and sneaky, that’s Latin Magic for you.

Hosea should be the one to call upon the Gods, or the ones remaining anyway, and shouting the spells. Silent Greek Magic is, of course, possible, but generally unused due to tradition, and Loud Latin Magic is also possible, but usually by amateurs or ones that have weaker links to The Unholy.

If anyone were to watch how he and Hosea use their magic, they would be almost disgusted. Both men have several decades under their belts when it comes to Magic, Dutch had grown up briefly in a coven, Hosea had his mother. They were basically experts, and one would expect them to act as such.

But there isn’t any fun in that, is there? And what would they be if they abide by laws? Even magical ones?

The point is, Dutch is thrown off completely when Hosea shouts loudly, one of his hands throwing a gesture as The Beast starts to lunge at them. A white almost spark appears from thin air, racing towards The Beast’s face and hitting it in its muzzle. It turns away, bending on itself as it lets out a low screech, a sound Dutch had only heard from a dying Bansheeonce and never thought he’d hear it again.

Definitely not from a misshapen Beast that was Arthur.

The gunfire starts after that, and there’s a sickening moment where The Beasts lets out a monstrous scream as a bullet hits its leg, and the flesh there starts to sizzle and ooze reddish-brown blood. Silver bullets, Dutch realizes, and it feels as if the pit of his stomach had disappeared, leaving a gaping hole in his torso that steadily filled with worry.

They don’t want to kill Arthur in the process of taming The Beast, and so, on a whim, he shouts a command, “Don’t shoot silver!”

It seems to get lost between the gunfire, and worry sinks deep into his skull as another shot hits The Beast’s shoulder, burning the skin and bleeding as The Beasts jumps onto its hind feet, roaring almost like a lion or a particularly angry horse, and thumping down heavily as it shakes its head. Time seems to slow as it raises its head, making direct eye contact with Dutch, and he could swear up and down; The Beast was silently pleading him.

The black that was feathering at the edges now almost completely covering the whites of its eyes, only a hollow circle, where the iris should be, is left white. Before Dutch can dig too deep into his mind about it, The Beast roars again, before charging towards where Dutch, Hosea and John were standing.

As a second nature, Dutch shouts a spell as he falls into a crouch, and a thin, barely visible dome flashes around them, just as the beast leaps over them. It lands with a mighty thud and crack as sticks break under its large weight. When he turns, Dutch only catches a glimpse of its slender tail disappearing between the trees, leaving behind large almost-paw-half-way-to-a-gargoyleprints as the only evidence of its presence.

The bullets stop, and the group of men that had followed Dutch and Hosea out of camp appear from between the trees. Charles is first to appear, almost scaring the skin off of Dutch as he clicks his tongue in distaste, seemingly coming out of nowhere, as quiet as a butterfly. “Should we follow him?” Charles asks, breaking the tense silence that had surrounded them after The Beasts departure. It’s only been seconds, perhaps only thirty of them, but they stretch on and on as they stare into the empty trees.

“If you want your throat ripped out and chest slashed, sure,” Hosea says cynically, holstering his gun, shaking away the remaining magical influences that hung around him, “I think, the best course of action is to go and make sure the rest are safe, the wall is weak, and Arthur-or whatever has a hold on Arthur, it’s no weakling,”

“What will happen...when he turns back,” Javier asks quietly, rifle still in hand, eyes darting to the trees as Dutch eyes the torn clothes that Arthur once wore. They seem almost fit for a child, seeing as what Arthur was right now.

“Will he turn back?” Bill asks, and Hosea looks up sharply, “I’m just asking” he defends lowly, and Hosea looks back, secretly just as confused as the rest of them.

“According to the books, he should, in a matter of hours or days. It didn’t give an exact number, and I’m not sure if it’s the exact same...monster, or just a sibling,” Hosea waves a dismissive hand, and the topic falls out of their conversation. One by one, the gang whistle for their horses. Hosea stares at Dutch with a certain look on his face, but it flashes away as Silver Dollar wickers behind him. The Count is close to follow, and in a distance, a howl echoes.

The men stare into the sky like the stars would align and send a signal down to them, and as the howl fades, they slowly grip their reins tighter and follow as Dutch and Hosea spur their horses away from where The Beast had run off to.

The camp was unsuspecting as they returned in mass, missing the one they ran out after. Bill and Lenny had gone to sleep almost instantly, even if it wasn’t that late, no one bothered to stop them. Javier had sought comfort in his guitar, Charles had sat solemnly by the fire. None of them had bothered to remove their guns, on a normal day, Susan and Hosea would force them to remove all weaponry, give the camp a sense of home or normalcy. Today, they’d seen enough to sleep with their pistols loaded. Not that they’ll sleep much, Hosea had already piled a bunch of sullen-looking books that, if you know where to look, glow with a reddish aura.

Dutch catches him just as he places the books with a thud on the table. “We should check on The Wall,” Hosea starts, voice detached and tired. Dutch doesn’t point it out, instead, he hums thoughtfully as he takes out his secondary pocket-watch, watching the hand **s** spin and spin, not resting once on any of the markings. It only ran wild thrice in his lifetime, and this makes a fourth. With a sigh, he snaps it shut, stuffing it into his pocket.

“Probably should,” Dutch agrees, “I’ll check on the writings, you take the carvings?”

 

* * *

 

The trees around him are unfamiliar. So unfamiliar, in fact, that he doesn’t even know which state he’s in. He figures, maybe it’s somewhere in Big Valley, but he doesn’t remember much of the path as much as he remembers the...actions. The metallic taste on his tongue isn’t unwarranted, his hands are splotched with blood, from under his newly grown nails, up to his elbows. He remembers the poor man he...killed. He spits distastefully, standing with a thigh, wincing when his ankle ebbed with muted pain. It all goes forgotten when the wind blows, making him shiver. He goes to wrap an arm around himself, remembering all at once that he doesn't have any clothes on. He ripped through them.

 _Shit_.

Everything comes with a price, it seems. Feels like payback for biting the man’s head off. Still, he’s stranded, most probably far away from camp, naked. The world really doesn’t like him, this is is just exhibit infinity. Not to mention the constant ache in his shoulder from the bullet, _silver bullet_ , he’d caught, and the slowly healing twin one above his ankle. They hurt more when he had been...that, whatever he was, the little voice he’d been talking to hated when he called himself a Werewolf. Apparently, he’s superior to those mutts, or something along those lines.

He sighs dejectedly, shaking his shoulders as the wind blows again. He could just grumble and shake his fists at God all day, but that would get him neither here nor there, so he does the next logical thing.

He walks till he finds a cabin, then he subsequently robs it.

To be fair, it was empty of life and with no one guarding it, so it was fair game. He didn’t even steal the jewelry, just an outfit, a flask of water and a map. He knows Big Valley enough, but it’s better safe than sorry. If he were to be somewhere in Ambarino, or the Grizzlies, he’ll surely need a map. Lemoyne is definitely off his list since the trees are rich in color and the air is breezy in a pleasant sort of way, now that he wasn't bare-ass naked. It isn’t necessarily cold, but it isn’t hot either. The ill-fitted clothes he stole kept him fairly warm, the shoes he’d found were slightly too small on him, just like everything else.

After a good bit of time, where the sun had started to lower from its perch in the sky, he reaches a point where he thinks he can finally mark down his position, and something loosened in his chest as a familiar face appears. The Trapper greets him, recognizing him as he walks up the incline. “Good to see ya again!” He says, chirp as always. Something hums in his blood, a tiny vibration that tickles down his neck, he ignores it, chalking it to after-effects of the wild night he’d had, “What’s got you covered in so much blood?” he asks curiously, “Something happen to your horse?”

“Had an accident, I-uh, I had to go on foot,” He lies, and the Trapper nods, “You wouldn’t know anyone who lends horses around here, would you?” He asks, and it’s rhetorical in nature, but some hopeful part of him wishes he’d get surprised. The Trapper laughs, shaking his head.

“No, unfortunately, but I saw a few wild Paints around, if you’re lucky, you could probably catch one,” He answers helpfully, and Arthur brightens, a relieved smile almost tugging at his lips. He thanks the Trapper, and as he turns to head away towards where the American Paints had been sighted, the Trapper calls for him, “I reckon you should take some food with you, at least for the horses,” he says, moving away from his station and collecting a few apples from a crate besides the campfire, “you look miserable, too,” he adds with a kind laugh as he hands Arthur the apples and a can of beans.

“Thank you,” Arthur thanks, because it’s the only thing he can muster up. His appreciation is beyond words, and he doesn’t think he’s in a good enough state of mind to try and think up fancy words, not with the dam of memories he’s pushing back.

“Wouldn’t want to lose my best costumer!” the Trapper says, taking his usual place behind the station, “I’ll be in Saint-Denis next week, I spotted a real nice looking Coyote by Rhodes, real special,” he hints, and Arthur smiles. Maybe, if he can get this ordeal over with and sort himself out, he can bring back that Coyote to him.

As it turns out, the horses are much further away than he anticipated, and he lost the thin trail he had followed just as he comes up close to Strawberry. By then, his ankle was aflame, and his shoulder wasn't much better. He thought about heading into Strawberry, but the silver-painted gate made him back away quickly.

He hadn't noticed that when he went to save Micah, but now he could sense it, like metal against his teeth; it makes him cringe as he hurries into the woods like a scared goblin. 

 He trekks down to the river, and by the time he found the stream, night had fallen and the air had gotten chilly. He wasn't exactly shivering, but he could feel the tips of his fingers freeze and his joints crackle as he walks down the path. 

He misses his horse. He would've been at camp earlier if he had him by his side, and even if he wouldn't have, he could have set up camp and a fire to warm him. 

It's not just that, though. He feels incredibly alone, the forest around him looking dead; only the sounds of crickets and cockroaches. He's completely alone. Even _It_ isn't with him, it had gone completely silent after he returned to his body, and he would almost think it's gone; if it weren't for the ticklish feeling down his spine that reminds him. _It's there_. Dormant after getting fed and letting out its energy. 

He settles down by a tree, deciding that his leg would do better with some rest. The bullet isn't there, and the skin around the wound is looking... daunting. The vien at the back of his calf is bulging, looking amazingly red as it curves into thinner blood capillaries that circle the actual wound. The flesh around it is scorched black, like he had causturizated it but he knows the truth. The bullet had burnt, like a poison had dropped into his blood and set its mind on turning his inside into acid. 

It hurt all over, from his... Claws to his... Tail. As weird to admit it as it is, his entire body hurt. And then another one hit him before he could recover, and he could feel his lungs quiver at the feel of silver chipping through his flesh. 

He had ran, even though  _it_ urged him to fight. He had little control, but he had enough that when it went to attack Dutch, he had forced them to jump over him instead. 

He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself as he blows a heavy breath. 

He doesn't even know how they'll react when he gets back. How The Wall would react. It could zap him away, like it did with other threats. 

He had watched it force away a wolf before, but it hadn't zapped it like it did with that Wendigo. Different threat levels, different methods of defence. Hosea had explained it to him, once, maybe almost nineteen years ago? 

The Wall was both Hosea and Dutch's magic combined, and as the gang grew and grew, Grimshaw would put up new sigils once in a while. On the occasion that Swanson was sober, he too would put up a ward. No body asked him where he learned magic, seeing as it's a taboo within the religious. 

He can't remember the laws they set to the wall, only that it protects them from harm, and it knows more than they do, even if they're the one to build it. No body would admit it, but somewhere in the process of strengthening it, one of them messed up and made it semi-sentient. 

_It feels those with true harmful intentions, and it knows those with pure ones too._

He shudders, from the cold or from the dread, he isn't sure. He would never hurt one of them, the gang is his family after all, he would rather kill himself before one of them. Even Micah, even Bill. 

But he doesn't know if  _it_ agrees with him. He doesn't know if he should risk it. 

On one hand, the worst possible scenario is that he dies, or gets badly hurt. And if the latter, then he'll have to leave. And what then? Live alone, with this  _thing?_

_As a monster?_

Dying sounds better than that. He can already feel the guilt of eating that farmer alive, mauling him and killing him. Poor fool, he was only going for his cows, but he had to get involved. 

He can't imagine himself.... Cannibalising (is that even a word?) for the rest of his life time. Can't imagine twisting and breaking his bones again to form into that monster, become everything vile wrapped up in a terrifying visage and running around. 

But-

But what if he gets through The Wall? What then? Will he trust himself enough to be around his family? Around Jack? Abigail? All the people he would die for? 

What if he loses control? The Wall doesn't work on what's already inside it, at least, he doesn't think it does. 

Would they even let him hang around? He saw Hosea's face, saw it as he cast a spell against him. Saw John fire at him, shooting him with Silver bullets, even after he knew it would kill him. 

_I can't blame them_

He can't no matter how much he wants to, how much anger is roiling in his chest, how much hatred is clouding his mind. He reminds himself. He turned into a monster, and he would've shot at a monster even if it was John, or Dutch, or Hosea. Especially a monster that wanted to kill, and that didn't prove itself peaceful. 

_But I'm their son_

Should they have ran away instead of firing? It would have been fruitless, seeing as he would be twice as fast as any horse, even The Count. It was either fighting or their death. And how would he feel like if he returned to normal with the guilt of his family's blood on his hands? 

He doesn't sleep, mainly because he's too cold to get comfortable and too anxiety ridden to shut his brain off. 

The thing is, though, he doesn't realize that hours had ticked by while he stared silently at the flowing river. No one passed by, surprisingly, and as dawn broke and lightened the sky; he snapped out of his prolonged space-out. 

He climbed to his feet again, dusted the dirt off the pants he had borrowed, and ignored how his ankle pinged with pain as he walked on. In a matter of few hours, he'll get his answers. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this from my phone as I wait to get my wisdom tooth taken out. Please tell me if there are any mistakes!


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